Nightswimming
by Rilla1
Summary: A dreamlike look at how deeply the bond between Max and Liz runs, even in death. Non-season specific, but written mid-season 2. Back when Dreaming was still a reliable pasttime.


Title: Night Swimming Author: Rilla Summary: A dreamlike look at how deeply the bond between Max and Liz flows, evening death. Disclaimer: Roswell, mine? Would that it were. Feedback: Live it, love it.please leave it! Or email RillaMyRilla@aol.com  
  
I slip down into the black water of the quarry and push myself from the rocky edge with one swift extension of my legs. For a few moments I don't move a muscle. I let my body glide through the coolness until I loose momentum and my legs begin to sink. Tipping up like a buoy, I spin in my imagined-weightless to face the bank. He hasn't arrived yet. My eyes dart along the thin path up the hill, illuminated by moonlight reflecting off the white stone. He comes when he needs to. I still have hope.  
  
Only the bottom five inches of my hair are wet. I don't like this unbalanced feeling, so I take a deep breath, bob up and then plunge down under the water. The dry hair resists for a moment before sinking with the rest of me and as I'm under, it eventually drifts down around me like thin branches. I shake my head in the viscous wetness before arching my neck upwards and scissor-kicking once to return to the surface.  
  
With a burst of oxygen in my lungs, the night air wraps around my exposed face as droplets fall down my forehead and from my nose. With one arm waving for buoyancy just under the surface of the man-made lake, my other hand wipes the water from my eyes. When I open them, he's there.  
  
Treading water slowly and deliberately, my feet finally find a place for me to stand. Only my head and the tops of my shoulders are visible to him. Of course, that's not entirely true. No depth of water could hide my soul from his eyes. This alone makes me naked to him.  
  
I watch as he crosses his arms across the front of his body, grips the edges of his gray t-shirt, and pulls upward. One fluid motion and the fabric falls to the ground on top of my own pile of clothes. Then his fingers move to the buttons of his khakis. He tugs sharply and they ripple open. But before he removes them, he pulls out of his shoes and he's barefoot. Then come the pants, as his hands slide beneath the fabric and over his narrow hips, down his thighs, until he can easily step out of them. He's standing in only dark blue boxers and his eyes have never left mine.  
  
Now I rotate in place to look out over the water, my back to him. I never got to see him naked when we were together. So I have to remind myself to breathe. I hear his final layer fall to the ground and him take one step, then two, then another before the sound of his watery entrance reaches my ears. Slow strokes, longer than mine and he's reached me. I feel the water that was rushing out in front of his body swirl around mine and continue on, even as he stops only inches behind me. It's a dance not to drift into him.  
  
"I miss you."  
  
I've heard this before. Every night we meet here, he greets me with the same words. He misses me. Well, I miss him. We miss each other. But acknowledging it never seems to make the ache go away. But that's not my job. Not really.  
  
"I need you. Liz...come back to me."  
  
This is also expected. As he says this, he reaches out, tentatively, with one hand that hovers mere centimeters away from my submerged shoulder blade. The chilled water between his hand and my back begins to warm from his heat and I get another brush with what it feels like to be alive inside, once more under his touch.  
  
So instead of melting back against his warmth, as I want to do whenever he meets me here, I turn to face him. But I'm careful not to let our bodies touch. It has to be his choice. Not mine. I can't falter in my role in all of this. Making the first and final the connection has to be his decision.  
  
Tears are in his eyes now, and in mine as well. Their heat contrasts strangely with the cold water already present on my cheeks.  
  
"I love you, Liz. I always will."  
  
His voice is tremulous and I want to reach out with my body and calm the trembling inside us both. But I remind myself again; that's not my role. So instead, I raise my head slightly, enough to look into his face, and whisper the answer I always give. His face is inches from mine, his lips desperately close, and his eyes...his soul begging for relief. And I say,  
  
"I want you to live. Let me go and live."  
  
He blinks and turn his face from mine. Tears are fought and his jaw is set. The moonlight makes the light glimmer on his bare chest and the last drops of water that fall from his hair stir the calm lake around us. And slowly, he shakes his head. He's not ready for release.  
  
Maybe tomorrow night. Maybe then he'll come to me in his dreams ready to give up the ghost that is myself. I keep my eyes open and trained on the sight of the man who loves me as I let my body sink beneath the water until my head is surrounded by the protective water. Under here, I can't see, or hear, or smell, or taste Max Evans. But I can feel him if I reach out, which is why I have to remain still. Still as the dead.  
  
I sleep under the cold wetness until I can take no more. Aching for breath, I push off the ground and break the surface. Air rushes in and fear rushes out and Max is no more. The night I drowned was much like this. One second he was before me, the next I was going to sleep beneath the water and when the darkness released me, he was gone.  
  
But he'll be back. And so will I. Waiting for him to come to me in his dreams and maybe one day, he'll finally take me in his arms and let me go. And like tonight, I'll maintain hope. Hope that he won't appear when I open my eyes. Hope that he's given up the dead, just as I've given up the living. 


End file.
